


Prism

by rockhoochie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 06:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14074662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockhoochie/pseuds/rockhoochie
Summary: Everything Dean does and everything he is - your heart is interwoven in all the facets of the man you love.





	Prism

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a drabble from the first GIF, then took on a life of it's own - exploring the many facets of Dean. This came straight from my heart, so I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> **GIFs not mine, credit to the owners**

The way he cradled a bottle - gently, delicately - such a contradiction to everything that he exuded. Thick fingers that could swiftly pull a trigger attached to hands that could suffocate or snap a bone wrapped almost elegantly around it.

How his tongue flicked the lip of the glass, giving himself the quickest tease of a taste of what was to come. It comes to rest on his plush lower lip, slight tip of his wrist sending the liquid over his teeth and tongue, stagnant for only a fraction of a second before his neck flexes with a swallow.

Would he be this gentle with my body? Holding me reverently as though I may shatter, touching me gingerly as though I may break?

His tongue…would it snake out the same way to taste the heat, the salt and sweetness of my skin, soothing the sting of a wound?

His lips…would he wrap them around mine with the same soft possessiveness, barely resting against mine but steady enough that he wouldn’t risk losing them, drinking me in until knew he needed more?

And would his eyes close in satisfaction, in unqualified delight at the taste of my mouth on his?

***

The way he hunts. Eyes, ears, all senses sharp – he can smell the danger, taste the threat, feel the foreboding in his fingertips. He plans, he tracks, he studies, he readies…then he pounces. A bullet through his flesh, a blade slashing his skin, bones cracking, muscles straining…none of it matters once he locks in. Even when he doesn’t see it coming he throws himself into a dance of graceful chaos - never compromising, never yielding - seeing it through until the flames burn or blood spills.

Would he handle me the same, like a hunter stalking prey? Those eyes – would they inspect every inch of my body until it was bathed in the bright green afterglow of his gaze?

When my breath quickens, gathering my voice and floating from my throat – would that embolden him? To keep staring, to step closer…to share his breath with mine until he succeeds in stealing it away?

Could he catch the scent of my longing? Of the fragrance I wear because I know he likes it, the clean redolence of the sweat permeates through my pores any time I’m in his presence, the perfume of my arousal that conceals itself deep inside before slipping out in dew drops between my legs?

Does he want me as badly as I want him – so much so that he imagines what my lips, my skin, my sex tastes like? Would the phantom flavor compel him to zero in on me, to make me his willing target? To use his mouth as a weapon – to whisper and kiss, nip and savor as I become weaker under his carnal scrutiny?

If he touches me, my skin soft and warm against his - would the goosebumps he raises and the trembles he causes instruct his fingers where to go and where to return? Would resistance be an impossibility under his fingertips, stroking and prodding and caressing the curves of my body? Can the agility of his heavy hands map a trail to the center of my essence, trapping me happily in his arms, his soul?

***

The way he cries, how the rims of his eyes flush pale crimson, how the dam of his resolve holds it all back save for one rolling tear. How he allows his guard to fall down, anger and sadness and everything painful and ugly gathering itself in that single droplet that streaks his cheek and drizzles down his lips. His tear is a concentrated, contained explosion, a lifetime of pain, of sadness, self-doubt, of guilt he only allows to leave through the droplet that catches between his lashes. For a moment – in a fleeting, involuntary loss of control he is vulnerable - weak, broken, defeated. His self-hatred shadows the light the glows beyond the pale.

Would he let it go for me? Nestled in my arms, comforted by the beating of my heart and stroke of my hand as it combs through his hair? Let them fall, Dean – more than one, cry a river, a lake, an ocean. Would he let me collect them, all his tears – let me blot them away, absorb them, let them disappear on my lips?

Could all of his pain, one day, transform - those bitter teardrops spiked with the poison of grief and loss and torment – could I shift their flavor from bane to benediction? In his frailty, could he trust me to hold him up? To carry his heart, embrace his love, hold up a mirror to all the good he has done and is destined to continue to give?

Would he let me love him – every mistake, every sin, each transgression and well-intended fallacy? Could my kisses chisel away at the wall of ice that encase his warm, humming heart?

***

The way he is. Gentle yet terrifying, cunning but clueless, open and closed. He can be protective and lethal, hard and soft, wet and dry, frigid and scorching. Eyes that calculate and admire, hands that soothe, stitch, grip and kill. A frown that makes the earth tremble, a smile that illuminates the depths of the darkest abyss. Lips that bait a tongue that savors, ears that echo the remnants of a thousand songs and screams.

Could he just _be_ for me, with me? To be suspended in his facets, wrapped in his web of laughter and tears, his screams of agony or sighs of pleasure, comfortably nestled between his impulse to control and desire to surrender? If I gave myself to him would he revere me, hunt me, or retreat from cautious fear?  

Does worry eclipse his mind when he looks at me? Does he see love lost, sacrificed and split open, bleeding with guilt and regret? If he doesn’t have me he can’t lose me – I can’t betray him, I can’t disappoint him, I can’t be taken from him.

Or can he see salvation in my arms, in my body, in my soul? Does he see heartache? In his eyes, how am I reflected, what does he perceive – does he see my love for him tattooed across my heart? Hear my admiration and wish as it pumps against my veins? Can he feel it, the way I lose myself when his cycles of light and darkness set my rhythms, the sanctity and awe he elicits as he serves as my firmament? 

Let me in. Let me out, around, above below. Surround me with everything that you were, all that you are, that you will be. Give me your tears, your fear, your laughter and your surrender, the weight of all you carry – let me share it, feel it.

Give me the curse and blessing of you, Dean.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rockhoochie)


End file.
